Read Online The Hireling's Tale by Jo Bannister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jo Bannister
Tags: Suspense
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‘Where’s that list of delegates?’
He wasn’t sure whether he was getting old or she was getting sneaky, but increasingly these days Shapiro found himself having to work to keep up with her. He found the list but still hadn’t worked out why she wanted it. ‘You think the two things are connected? You think that whoever killed the girl … Or rather, you think the man who killed the girl is the target? Or maybe … He gave up. ‘What do you think?’
Liz looked taken aback. Nothing so sophisticated: it had only occurred to her that, with so many foreigners in town over the weekend, anything smacking of international intrigue might involve one of them. ‘Dr Crowe mentioned South America. I wondered if any of Mr Kendall’s delegates came from there.’
Two Brazilians representing a company in Sao Paulo had shared one room, a third representing the government occupied another. ‘He’s still there,’ said Shapiro. ‘Eduardo da Costa. I met him: small man, sharp dresser.’
‘It’s hardly a reason to assassinate him.’
‘Maybe he’s the assassin.’
Liz thought about it, then shook her head. ‘That hotel’s at the centre of a murder inquiry: it’s the last place a mechanic would stay. And da Costa’s been here for five days, which is four days too long. Whatever the mechanic’s here for, he’ll do it today. He arrived overnight, he sighted his gun in first thing this morning, he’ll do the job today and be gone by the time we hear about it. No one in The Barbican Hotel is a mechanic; but one of them may be the target.’
Also on the list were a Uruguayan from Montevideo and a Mexican with a Scottish name. Most of them checked out after breakfast on Monday, long before Wicksy or even the sheep got shot. It was hard to see why anyone who wished them ill would be sighting in his gun twenty-four hours after they left town. Which suggested the target was one of the eleven delegates left at The Barbican. Two of them were from South America: da Costa and Selkirk.
‘Don’t get hung up on the South American angle,’ advised Shapiro. ‘A professional mechanic will work for anyone who can afford him, the politics are irrelevant. Even if it is the same man, he won’t confine himself to people from one part of the world.’
It was never more than a shot in the dark. Liz was just looking desperately for somewhere to start: somewhere to begin chipping at the monolith. Someone they didn’t know was going to kill someone else they didn’t know for some reason beyond their ken. It was like looking at a black glass pyramid,
there was no way of getting hold of it and no way of getting inside. Somehow they had to chip a hole in the façade to see what was happening behind it, and all they had was the list.
Everything had happened so quickly there’d been no time to register the astonishment that events common enough in Colombia, in New York and Moscow and Naples, and not totally unheard of in London, had found their way to Castlemere. Dull, grey, work-a-day Castlemere. When she had a moment the fact that they were up against a hired killer would leave her breathless, even more amazed than appalled. But right now she needed to concentrate on the practicalities, and nothing was more practical, more concrete, than two corpses in the morgue. ‘All right. But the target’s on this list somewhere. And so, probably, is whoever killed the girl.’
Shapiro couldn’t argue with that. ‘The same man?’
She considered. ‘No. It doesn’t work. Nobody hires a top-class assassin to avenge a hooker. Even if they did, it wouldn’t happen here. Whoever killed the girl is long gone. If someone was after him, he’d have followed.’
Shapiro closed one eye in a pensive squint. ‘So if the mechanic’s here the target’s still here; so whoever he is he didn’t kill the girl.’
‘That’s how I see it. The target is probably one of the eleven men still in the hotel. The man who killed the girl is probably one of
He wasn’t sure whether he was getting old or she was getting sneaky, but increasingly these days Shapiro found himself having to work to keep up with her. He found the list but still hadn’t worked out why she wanted it. ‘You think the two things are connected? You think that whoever killed the girl … Or rather, you think the man who killed the girl is the target? Or maybe … He gave up. ‘What do you think?’
Liz looked taken aback. Nothing so sophisticated: it had only occurred to her that, with so many foreigners in town over the weekend, anything smacking of international intrigue might involve one of them. ‘Dr Crowe mentioned South America. I wondered if any of Mr Kendall’s delegates came from there.’
Two Brazilians representing a company in Sao Paulo had shared one room, a third representing the government occupied another. ‘He’s still there,’ said Shapiro. ‘Eduardo da Costa. I met him: small man, sharp dresser.’
‘It’s hardly a reason to assassinate him.’
‘Maybe he’s the assassin.’
Liz thought about it, then shook her head. ‘That hotel’s at the centre of a murder inquiry: it’s the last place a mechanic would stay. And da Costa’s been here for five days, which is four days too long. Whatever the mechanic’s here for, he’ll do it today. He arrived overnight, he sighted his gun in first thing this morning, he’ll do the job today and be gone by the time we hear about it. No one in The Barbican Hotel is a mechanic; but one of them may be the target.’
Also on the list were a Uruguayan from Montevideo and a Mexican with a Scottish name. Most of them checked out after breakfast on Monday, long before Wicksy or even the sheep got shot. It was hard to see why anyone who wished them ill would be sighting in his gun twenty-four hours after they left town. Which suggested the target was one of the eleven delegates left at The Barbican. Two of them were from South America: da Costa and Selkirk.
‘Don’t get hung up on the South American angle,’ advised Shapiro. ‘A professional mechanic will work for anyone who can afford him, the politics are irrelevant. Even if it is the same man, he won’t confine himself to people from one part of the world.’
It was never more than a shot in the dark. Liz was just looking desperately for somewhere to start: somewhere to begin chipping at the monolith. Someone they didn’t know was going to kill someone else they didn’t know for some reason beyond their ken. It was like looking at a black glass pyramid,
there was no way of getting hold of it and no way of getting inside. Somehow they had to chip a hole in the façade to see what was happening behind it, and all they had was the list.
Everything had happened so quickly there’d been no time to register the astonishment that events common enough in Colombia, in New York and Moscow and Naples, and not totally unheard of in London, had found their way to Castlemere. Dull, grey, work-a-day Castlemere. When she had a moment the fact that they were up against a hired killer would leave her breathless, even more amazed than appalled. But right now she needed to concentrate on the practicalities, and nothing was more practical, more concrete, than two corpses in the morgue. ‘All right. But the target’s on this list somewhere. And so, probably, is whoever killed the girl.’
Shapiro couldn’t argue with that. ‘The same man?’
She considered. ‘No. It doesn’t work. Nobody hires a top-class assassin to avenge a hooker. Even if they did, it wouldn’t happen here. Whoever killed the girl is long gone. If someone was after him, he’d have followed.’
Shapiro closed one eye in a pensive squint. ‘So if the mechanic’s here the target’s still here; so whoever he is he didn’t kill the girl.’
‘That’s how I see it. The target is probably one of the eleven men still in the hotel. The man who killed the girl is probably one of
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